Fragmentary
by Ouaysis
Summary: "I'm sick of people telling me that I'm not to blame. Because if it wasn't me, than who was it?" After the Nogitsune, Stiles would never be the same again. No matter how hard he tried, he could never quite put all the pieces back together. He would always be fragmentary. *ONESHOT* *MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS* *Set after 3x23*


**Man, I feel like it's been ages since I've posted anything on here. I checked earlier and it's been two years! So I think this story is definitely over due. I've never written a Teen Wolf oneshot before, but I'm pretty happy with this one. Hope you like it! Any reviews are greatly appreciated! :) **

***Contains a small amount of Stiles/Malia! (Stalia? Miles?)***

**Unfortunately, I do not own anything Teen Wolf related and am simply borrowing the characters temporarily.**

* * *

He felt like that vase he and Scott had broken when they were kids. They were playing football in the house, even though Mrs. McCall had strictly forbidden it; Stiles had thrown the ball and Scott had missed. It crashed into the vase, knocking it to the ground where it shattered into a million pieces. They had done their best to rebuild it, to glue all the pieces back together so that she wouldn't notice. But no matter how hard they tried, they could never make it whole again. He was like that. Stiles was that vase now, broken, shattered. All the pieces had been glued back together, but they would never be complete again. He would never be whole again.

Every time he looked into a mirror, he could see a shadow of that smirk, of that sinister look of joy. When he saw his reflection he saw the faces of those whose blood was on his hands. Hundreds of innocent people…Aiden…Allison… Maybe he wasn't the one who literally killed them, but it was his fault they were dead. He wasn't strong enough. He was too weak to close his mind. Mostly Stiles tried to avoid mirrors now.

"Stiles?"

His dad was suddenly by his side, a comforting, steadying hand pressing down on his shoulder. He blinked a few times, trying to fight off their faces, trying to fight off the guilt. He had to be stronger now. He couldn't be weak again.

"Hey, Dad." He forced a smile to curl up the side of his mouth.

"You okay?"

"Yeah," he nodded, smiling a little wider. "'Course. Just thinking."

His father nodded as well, squeezing a bit before leaving his bedroom. He just sat there a moment in silence, but he couldn't take it very long. He had to do something. He _needed_ to do something, to get their faces off his mind, to keep them from haunting his waking moments just as they did in his dreams.

* * *

It was Lydia's idea to do the memorial service. Stiles stood frozen at the back, staring at the pictures set up in front of the stage. He felt like he couldn't breathe. There was not enough oxygen to fill his lungs, no matter how desperately he gulped it in. There were tears in his eyes. It was his fault Allison was dead. He was the reason Aiden was gone. Swallowing hard, he took in another unsatisfying, shaky breath and willed himself to step forward. He found Scott and Lydia in the front, their faces stained with their salty tears. Silently he sat beside them, sharing looks of loss and longing. Isaac was there too, his eyes rimmed red and his expression filled with grief.

Why was it always them? Why was it always someone else that died and not him? His mom. Allison. Who would be next? Lydia? Scott? His dad? There was no denying the pain. It weighed on him, crushed his lungs and burned his throat. He knew that he couldn't let them see it. At least, not all of it. Everyone told him it wasn't his fault. He was possessed, he wasn't in control. But that didn't matter, none of it mattered. It _was_ his fault. If he had been strong enough, if he hadn't ignored his subconscious and been so damn curious, if he'd resist the temptation… Well, then maybe Allison and Aiden wouldn't be dead today.

Technically, the service was for Aiden, too. But mostly, it was for Allison. He didn't really listen as classmates went up and talked about her. They didn't really know her. They hadn't fought by her side, plotted with her, saved people from Matt and the Alphas and the Darach. All they knew was that Allison was a nice girl who always managed to turn her homework in on time. It wasn't hard to be strong for Scott, for Lydia. They were both crying, unable to keep the tears from leaking out of their eyes. Stiles was their rock, like he knew he had to be. Kira was there. But she hadn't known Allison like they'd known her. Derek was there too, he saw, standing in the background with his jaw clenched as he did his best to keep it together.

Afterwards, after Scott wiped the tears away and put on a brave face, he slipped away for a few minutes. It was exhausting, pretending you weren't completely falling apart. Stiles found a surprise in the empty hallway he'd escaped to: Chris Argent, alone, grieving his daughter, the only family he'd had left in the world. Well, there was still Gerard, but no one counted that psychopath. His beard was more overgrown than usual, his eyes bloodshot.

"Mr. Argent."

His voice was barely a whisper, but the sound carried loudly through the silence of the hallway. The man looked up, realizing that he wasn't alone. A small smile flittered over his lips as he crossed the space between them.

"Stiles," he said gently, "how are you?"

He remembered clearly the scene between him and Argent in Derek's apartment. Would it have been easier, for everyone, if the man had just killed him that day? A part of the real Stiles had been the one begging Argent to shoot him. It would have been so simple, a single bullet to the chest, the head…

"I'm…" It occurred to Stiles that this man was truly strong. His daughter had been killed—murdered. And yet here he was, asking the boy responsible how he was doing. How could he find that courage, that strength? Suddenly he didn't know what to say to him. The guilt, the shame that he felt inside was unbearable.

"I'm so sorry." The words came out in a tortured whisper. Broken words from a broken boy. Argent managed a smile, reaching up to briefly press the palm of his hand against Stiles' cheek.

"Stiles, please—"

"Don't," he demanded, his voice hoarse. "Don't you dare say it wasn't my fault! I'm _sick_ of people telling me that I'm not to blame. Because if it wasn't me, than who was it? I'm sorry. I wish it had been me."

He paused, his hands curling into balls at his side as the tears fell from his eyes, finally released from their prison. "It should have been me…"

"These things just happen, Stiles. We don't know why. We just have to accept it."

Argent shook his head sadly and pulled the boy into a fatherly hug. He couldn't help it when his arms gripped Argent; the hug was comforting, despite everything. Stiles did his best not to sob into the man's shoulder. Now that she was gone, Stiles could see bits of Allison in him. He didn't know how much time had passed when Argent pulled away.

"I know that you feel responsible for this. And in a way, I understand that guilt. But I need you to understand that I don't blame you, Stiles. No one blames you but yourself and that's something you have to deal with. Over time, things will get easier."

He didn't believe him, but he nodded anyway.

"I should go."

Stiles lifted a hand in farewell, his mind still on Allison and the other victims of the Nogitsune. He didn't know at the time that it was the last they would see of Argent for a while. No one did. The man simply disappeared, sending a note a few weeks after he left letting them all know he was fine and staying in France. He slipped both hands in his pockets, squaring his shoulders against the mid-autumn air as he slipped outside. The chilly air was welcomed, as the bite against his exposed skin kept his focus on his physical discomfort. Sometimes he still felt a shadow of the Nogitsune, a dull ache in his bones. He knew deep inside that it would never leave him. Just like he would never be fully repaired, he would never quite forget the deep cold that had penetrated his very being.

He didn't know where he was going, all he knew was that he was walking away. Away from the people that he loved, from the faces that showed him pity and sometimes fear, or worry. It was dark by the time he arrived home. His dad was waiting by the front door anxiously. He could see it in his face the moment he walked through the door.

"Stiles," he breathed, the relief flooding his face before he could stop it.

The man stepped forward, hugging his son. Stiles hugged him back, closing his eyes tight as he squeezed his dad even tighter. He knew how much pain he had caused his father. Just like he had caused everyone pain. He was sorry for that, too. For the worry, the fear, that he had felt on his son's behalf.

"I was just out for a walk," he said in explanation, though his father never asked for one. "Trying to clear my head."

Giving a nod, his dad stepped back and dropped his arms to his side. He cleared his throat and glanced up the stairs.

"That girl you helped save—uh, Malia, I think? She's upstairs. I told her I didn't know when you'd be home, so uh, she said she'd wait."

"Okay."

He hadn't seen her since Echo House, since that night in the basement. As he slowly went up the stairs, peeling off his jacket as he went, his thoughts turned to the beautiful girl with chocolate-colored eyes. For the first time in weeks, he felt something stirring inside of him other than guilt. Stiles stopped in the hallway right outside his door, suddenly wondering how he looked. Was he a complete mess? Briefly he considered looking in the mirror, but quickly decided against it. There were too many faces that still stared back at him. He settled with running a hand through his hair and straightening the hem of his T-shirt.

She was sitting on his bed, legs crossed underneath her, when he walked in. They didn't say anything as Stiles closed the door with a quiet click. A strange warmth that he hadn't felt in weeks, months, even, began to spark inside of him. He remembered that night—it seemed so long ago—and all that they had shared. The beginnings of a smile, a true, genuine smile formed at the corner of his lips.

Then, finally: "Hi."

"Hi," she smiled back. "I hope you don't mind I came here."

He shook his head and sat down on the mattress beside her. "No."

"I heard about your friend." She looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. "I'm sorry."

Stiles nodded, but for once his mind wasn't on Allison. Instead it was on Malia, and the memory of her palm against his. His heart started to race, his eyes searching her face for a reason for her visit. A strand of soft brown hair tumbled from its place behind her ear and he reached over to put it back. Her hand caught his on the way down and she slid her fingers through his, interlocking them.

"It's just me and my dad at home. And mostly he just worries about me."

"I know the feeling," he replied, a tiny laugh escaping as he did. One corner of her mouth twitched up and she looked at him through her eyelashes. His lips parted, blown away by the emotions swirling through him like a tornado.

"That night… in the basement…" Finally she had come to the point, the whole reason she was there. He could sense it in her tone. "Was it just because you were dying?"

"How could you say that?" He shook his head, inching closer on the mattress. "Malia…"

Without another word, she closed the gap between them, her mouth slamming against his. Suddenly he felt alive again. An explosion of joy and freeness rushed through him at her kiss. He leaned against her, her body falling gently against the mattress. Until that moment he hadn't realized just how much he'd longed for her, the taste of her lips, the feel of her body against his. She was a welcomed escape from his demons, the ghosts that haunted his conscience.

When he woke with a start, his scream dying on his lips, he realized that she was still beside him. Her skin was warm, probably from the heat of the blankets and his own skin, her face illuminated in the moon that was missing only a sliver. A smile played over his mouth, warming his heart, his soul. How could one girl be so beautiful? For perhaps the first time, he realized how Scott must have felt, every time he saw Allison. The familiar jab of guilt followed the thought of her, but this time he refused to let it linger. Not when he'd finally started to feel again. He took in a deep breath, willing his mind to resist the dark thoughts, the nightmares. As he lay back down, covering her hand with his, he couldn't help but wonder what the morning would bring. For the first night in months, he had a peaceful night's rest.

* * *

He opened his eyes the next morning to an empty bed. A part of him wished she would have stayed, but he knew that she couldn't. He father—adoptive father—probably would have sent out a search party for her, let alone what his own father might do if he found a girl in Stiles' bed. A loud knock echoed through the room, and a moment later his dad opened the door.

"Morning," he said, considerably cheerful with all that had happened recently. Stiles only responded with a yawn and sat up against his pillows.

"You better get up and help me with this casserole. I don't know why I agreed to this." His father shook his head and with a jolt Stiles realized what day it was. Thanksgiving.

"Yeah," he mumbled sleepily, closing his eyes once again. His father's footsteps could be heard as he crossed the room.

"I don't think so. If I have to take a burned green bean casserole to the McCall's to dinner, than you're at least taking half the blame."

A pair of hands grabbed the comforter cocooned around him and pulled. The warmth disappeared and suddenly he was greeted by the chill of his bedroom. Stiles groaned, but managed to get out of bed. He looked at his window and noticed it was still open just a crack. A smile spread over his lips as he followed his father downstairs. Several hours later, they had a gooey, steaming mess of something that looked vaguely like a green bean casserole.

"We can always bring some rolls," Stiles shrugged as he chewed a bite of the bagel he was eating for breakfast. His father had noted the food with a tentative hope, but neither of them acknowledged that it was the first time in weeks that Stiles had eaten without someone practically forcing it down his throat.

"Just go get ready." His father laughed good-naturedly. "We're supposed to be there in an hour."

Stiles did as he was told, going upstairs to shower and change his clothes. He still avoided the mirror, leaving it fogged up from the steam of his shower, but for the first time in a while he felt lighter. Scott was upstairs in his bedroom when they arrived. Mrs. McCall and his dad went to the kitchen, smiling and chatting as she went back to the putting the finishing touches on the food. Somewhere in the back of his mind he remembered Scott saying his dad would be gone for Thanksgiving. He'd tried to mask his disappointment, but Stiles had heard it anyway.

He knocked on the open door before stepping in Scott's room. His best friend was lying on his bed, hands folded on top of his chest as he stared up blankly at the ceiling. Picking up the nearest object, Stiles threw a lacrosse ball at him. Scott, of course, with his freakish werewolf-powers, caught it without even looking.

"Cheater," he complained, though he felt a smile on his lips. It was a real smile this time, not just one forced for Scott's benefit. Across from him, Scott sat up with a sigh. There was still sadness in his eyes, a shadow of grief on his face.

"C'mon, Scott. We have to stop moping around. It isn't healthy. For either of us." Surprisingly, he found himself meaning the words. What had changed so drastically? How had he suddenly found such strength when just yesterday he'd been nearly consumed with the weight of it all?

"Are you saying you've stopped blaming yourself?"

"No." He averted his eyes a moment, the all-too-familiar guilt seeping back in. "That will take time. But I think what we need right now is a little Left for Dead action. What better to raise our spirits than shooting the heads off of zombies?"

Scott didn't protest. He just put the game in and threw Stiles a controller. They both sat at the end of his bed, battling the zombies that never seemed to end.

"This is weird."

"What is?"

"_This_."

"Zombies? Dude, after everything we've learned about, I think zombies are the least of our problems. Your werewolf ass could take them down, no question."

"No, I just mean…" Scott stopped, thinking, trying to describe how he felt. "In the last year, I've been bitten by a werewolf, terrorized by hunters and a pack of alphas, almost killed by a darach, sacrificed myself to save my mother's life, saved you from an evil fox spirit… And now we're playing video games like normal teenagers."

"I know," he replied after a heavy silence. "It is weird. But I need normal right now, Scott. _You_ need normal."

There was another silence and he knew that Scott was agreeing with him. At least in the game, if you failed once, you could go back and try again. In real life, if you failed, people died. People like Allison, people like Aiden. _No, don't think about it. Not today_. An hour later Mrs. McCall called them both down for dinner. The four of them talked and laughed and cried a little as they remembered the past twelve months. A lot had happened since their last Thanksgiving. A lot to mourn, sure. But there was also a lot to give thanks for.

After that night, Malia snuck in through the window several night a week. Sometimes Stiles wondered how his dad never heard, and sometimes he thought maybe he was just thankful that his son had finally started to move on. Either way, he never seemed to mind. He started to teach her, about loyalty, about friendship, about the things humans do. And she taught him, whether she knew it or not, about how to live, how to move on, and how to fall in love.

Over time Stiles realized that Argent was right—things happen and you have to accept them. That didn't mean that he could ever fully forgive himself, or that he would ever fully be whole. But it meant he could move on from the past, to learn from his mistakes and become a stronger person. There would always be those dark shadows in the back of his mind; the faces of Allison and Aiden, the memory of the innocents killed by the Nogitsune. But it would get easier to let them go and live his life as he knew he should. Mrs. McCall still had that vase he and Scott had broken as kids. It was in the living room, holding a bouquet of fake flowers that were always in bloom. She said that though it was filled with cracks, and the original beauty of the vase was gone, what it had become was also beautiful in its own broken way.


End file.
